


In your flesh lingers the poison of your dreams

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, NSFW, curufin isn't feeling very well, read the warnings in the notes, the ships are only mentioned, this is very dark tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An anon on Tumblr put two portraits on Curufin's desk. The Noldo tried to ignore them, but instead he found himself swallowed by his own lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In your flesh lingers the poison of your dreams

**Author's Note:**

> tw: incest, self harm, sex addiction, mental illness.
> 
> And I'm currently exploring my hc about Curvo's sexuality, and there's nothing sweet about it.

Curufin doesn’t see them immediatly, but as he starts to look throught the documents scattered on his desk, he finds them. Two portraits, beautifully drawn, of the two persons with whom he spent most of his time lately.

He has a lot of work to do, and decides to put them both in a drawer, keeping them for later. He vaguely wonders how the portraits arrived there, in his chambers, on his desk, but the Fëanorion quickly shrugged the thought off. He would probably investigate later, check the locks on the door and ask the guards about a potential intruder, but his work is waiting, and his mind too busy in this very moment to think about anything else.

Or at least that’s what the Noldo believes.

After a few minutes of vague scribllings, he puts down his quill, leans back in his seat and sighs lengthily. He can’t do anything productive, for this handful of ideas and plans is turning into a whirl made of the most scabrous images, brought to his mind by the two portraits.

His work is there, waiting for him, and Curufin can’t focus. In his mind turn the images of golden hair, strong muscles and tattoos, precious jewellery, and this fresh scent of earth and wildness… His brother’s scent, his cousin’s voice, their touch and their moans–

No. 

Curufin cannot allow it. He cannot allow himself such insane thoughts. 

…It is this place.

This place is driving him crazy, the walls of Nargothrond, the air of Nargothrond, the people of Nargothrond among whom his own people is getting lost.

Yes, it is this place, this realm, that affects his nerves and compromises his sanity.  
A tired hand passing over his face and through the raven strands, Curufin tries to calm his nerves, but the images are stuck in his mind, giving him no relief as he helplessly tries to get out off his own insalubrity.

Lust.

This part of him, this dark and menacing part of him which threatens to take over him again. He fears his own lust, he hates it and so often tries to bury it. For so long, his lust was alseep, living his mind and body at peace. But now it’s omnipresent in his life, in his Fëa. He could feel it crawl into him like poison in his veins, and his own thoughts frighten him.

Is he losing control over himself? Are his Fëa and Rhöa parting slowly, slyly, letting his impulses escape his control?

He has no answer, and today, he has no will to fight.

Reluctantly, shamefully, he takes the portraits and heads to his bed. The door is locked, the curtains are closed, and alone, in the darkness of his chamber, Curufin is facing his own sins.

He doesn’t even get undress. He knows what will happen, the ritual is always the same. he only needs the portraits, his hand and his sex, where all his energy seems to be gathered now.

It doesn’t take long before his erection grows, painful and heavy in his palm, between his fingers. He wants to bury his face into his pillow, he doesn’t want to face it: the sinful display of his own lust. But his eyes are fixed on his sex, leaving it from time to time to fall on the two portraits beside him. Shame and lust are merging into a harrowing feeling that increases his guilty pleasure. Oh yes this guilt… how bittersweet, how enthralling.

His strokes himself, he rubs himself until the frictions become painful. He doesn’t want to come, not now, not so soon, not like this. He holds back, stops a few seconds, breathes… his sex is still hard, red and wet, throbbing under his fingers. 

He can still control it. He has control over his erection, over his pleasure, no matter how dark it is, no matter how much it hurts. He controls it.

The images come back, and his hand starts to move again, harder, faster…

… And stops again.

It lasts an hour, until his arm hurts with the intensity of the pace, until his cock hurts, until his mind cries for it to stop.  
He comes with a loud gasp, a groan of pain and rage and frustration, of shame and relief. The images vanish, his hand, his tunic and his cock are sticky, viscous. He’s breathless, he feels dizzy, and it seems his semen is everywhere. Not only on his hand and hipbone, but also covering his whole body, the bedsheets, his face and the walls. The hallucination lasts a few seconds, and after a few blinks everything is back to normal.

Curufin will catch his breath, undress and take a bath. The water will be too hot but he will not care. He will rub his body clean with a violence he knows too well.  
And then he will go back to work.

He will refuse to see his son today. And probably the day after as well. He doesn’t want Tyelperinquar to witness his sins, for Curufin knows there will always be a trace of them; in his eyes, in his smile, in his voice, in his very movements.

He must keep his son away from this lewdness.  
He must keep his son away from himself.


End file.
